


A Failed Act of Mercy

by BloodLunacy



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Bloody Crow of Cainhurst headcanon, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Heavy Angst, Henryk is also mentioned briefly, I'm Bad At Tagging, Poor Eileen, at least by my standards, our crow grandma needs a break, the Hunter (mentioned) - Freeform, though the gore is quite mild in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodLunacy/pseuds/BloodLunacy
Summary: Eileen knew it would happen eventually, that she would have to take down one of her own. But knowing it doesn't make it easier to stomach.She has to turn her blades against her apprentice. Against the man she taught and trained and hoped would succeed her when the Hunt was over. The now infamous Bloody Crow of Cainhurst.Gods help her.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	A Failed Act of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few weeks ago and have no idea what to do with it, so... here we go I guess. Also, I know most people like to think the Bloody Crow was a Vileblood who killed a Hunter of Hunters and wears the garb as a taunt, but I thought it would be all the more tragic if he was, in fact, Eileen's apprentice who found himself entranced by the Vilebloods. I know this story is a little rushed, if this gets popular enough I'll likely go back and edit it or add a second chapter like I originally planned. Idk, lemme know what you guys think!

Eileen knew it would happen eventually. That she would have to take down one of her own.

But knowing something will happen doesn’t make it easier to stomach when it does.

Already, having to end Henryk’s life brought an ache to her heart that she hadn’t known since leaving her homeland. He had been a good friend to her, one of the few welcoming Yharnamites to take her in and treat her no differently than anyone else. He taught her so much about hunting, about the best techniques to employ against the beasts- her very first hunt was spent with him and Gascoigne, learning all she could and delighting in how well they all worked together. 

They had almost become like a family.

And then Henryk went mad. 

That little Hunter (what was her name? Did she have one?) was a great help in putting him down, but it still hurt. Every strike with her blade that pierced his flesh burned her hands, every time his flesh was cut her own heart ached as though it was being torn apart. It was mercy, she told herself. It was mercy to kill him rather than let him continue to suffer in that horrible blood-addled madness. Such is the duty of a Hunter of Hunters, after all; to help their counterparts by giving them a well-earned death, sparing them of the agony of being blood drunk.

By the Gods, it hurt, and it never got easier. Hunt after Hunt, Eileen saw more and more Hunters succumb to that terrible sickness, and had to kill every last one. Some had been friends, some complete strangers, but all of them were  _ human _ . There is no honor in her work, no honor in hunting down other humans as though they were no different from the slavering beasts. 

To kill a friend is to stain one’s soul forevermore and damn oneself to the Nightmares. But to kill one of your brothers-in-arms is a nightmare all on its own.

Eileen steadied herself, taking deep breaths as she stood just outside the Cathedral. There were massive pools of blood where there had been only clean cobblestone before, and some bore the marks of fingers scraping through them. She had him cornered.

Normally, she would feel a kick of adrenaline right about now. Her pulse would rise, her heart would pound, her aging limbs would feel lighter as her entire body prepared for a fight. But now, dread sunk into her stomach like a lead elixir, her entire being weighed down knowing what sin she was about to commit. 

Not only that, but she knew the man that this  _ thing  _ once was. She had taken him under her wing, tried to show him the ways of the Hunters of Hunters. He was an eager lad, if not stoic, and despite knowing the responsibilities, he genuinely wished to take on the mantle of Hunter of Hunters. He knew it would be a thankless line of work, and that he would bear witness to He was going to be her successor.

And what a successor he would have been.

He was far stronger and faster than any Hunter of any faction Eileen had ever seen. Which, in her advanced age, was really saying something. He fought with the quiet ferocity of an apex predator, used some ancient art he called ‘quickening’ to move at positively inhuman speeds, and managed to carry himself with a carefully trained grace all the while. His sword, a thin blade with intricate carvings all throughout, could draw upon his own life force when he allowed it, and the ensuing blows could be devastating. He and his sword were a single entity, the brilliant metal singing as he swung it in elegant arcs, each form almost indistinguishable from the other. In battle, he was little more than a blur of cape and steel, and no foe ever stood a chance against him.

And then he changed.

Regret sank deep into Eileen’s bones as she took a moment to reminisce. He had told her one day that, after digging through his family history, he learned he was a descendant of Cainhurst nobility. He had wanted to find the castle and see what he could find there, to see if there were any surviving family or at least if there were any other records- and she encouraged him.

Maybe if she had simply told him to let the past lie, to not disturb the ghosts in their slumber, she wouldn’t have to turn her hand against him. 

It didn’t matter, she supposed. The ravenous creature inside the Cathedral wasn’t him. That wasn’t the lanky young man she trained some years ago. 

Even if it was, she did not have the luxury of turning away. Such an act of cruelty would only make her worthy of falling upon her own blade.

Breathe in.

Hold.

Breathe out.

She had to finish the job.

Eileen strode into the Cathedral, her blades in either hand. Her footsteps echoed painfully in her ears as she made her way up the staircase, the innumerable eyes of the Amygdalan statues boring into her, already passing their judgement upon her spirit.

She tried her utmost to ignore them and pressed on, soon finding herself in a grand, almost entirely empty room. It had once been filled with pews and incense burners, now clear of all signs of life and worship save for the shrine at the far end.

And before the shrine stood her target.

Still in his Crowfeather garb, he stood stock still, facing her, his countenance occulted beneath that accursed mask.

“I think you know why I’m here,” she called, continuing to shrink the distance between them.

The silence on his end was suffocating, but she imagined hearing his voice would be infinitely worse.

“I can make it quick,” Eileen continued, no longer trying to disguise the waver in her voice. “I know ya aren’t in your right mind, I know you’ve likely forgotten- but we had an agreement, you and I.”

She was standing just a few feet before him now, and he had yet to make a single move. He was breathing heavily, and his clothes were tattered and blotched with fresh blood. 

They both were frozen, perfect statues, waiting for the other to make the first move. An eternity passed between them, yet time itself was completely still.

Finally, the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst made his move, first conjuring that strange pale mist that allows him to perform the quickening, then lunging forward with his chikage.

Eileen rolled expertly out of the way, attempting to rebalance herself to jab him in the chest with her duel blades, only for him to have already leapt out of harm’s way by the time she regained her balance.

“Not even you were able to resist the intoxication of the Hunt,” she panted, transforming her blades into a single sword and slashing at him once, managing to catch his arm. “No matter, I will uphold my end-” she sidestepped just in time to evade a shot from his pistol, “-of the bargain.”

The battle continued almost like a sick dance. Each time one of them moved, the other easily parried or dodged, matching each motion perfectly. It was nearly impossible to land a hit on the other- one would jump forwards, the other would leap backwards, a nearly constant distance between them that was rarely crossed. And it was quickly wearing on Eileen.

He was younger, he hadn’t already worn himself down with slaughtering his best friend. He hardly even seemed phased while Eileen was suddenly struggling to match his pace.

He transformed his blade, slicing across his side to draw his own blood and let it soak into the carvings, before striking out once more with the calculated mercilessness of a snake. The cold metal sank into Eileen’s leg, tearing through muscle and flesh and she couldn’t hold in her cry of pain.

He pulled it back, slashing once, twice more, each blow more painful than the last, drawing horrific amounts of blood.

Eileen, gasping for breath, managed to stumble out of his blade’s reach, barely given enough of a respite from his attacks to inject a blood vial, her flesh and muscles knitting back together only to be torn apart by a well-aimed shot.

A horrific realization dawned upon her as she staggered to her feet, her entire body running cold, ice flooding her veins.

_ She cannot win. _

This was her one task. Her one purpose in this life. She had even promised him, long ago, that should he ever fall, she would deliver him to his dream. But now, she was hardly able to avoid his strikes, trying as hard as she could to draw him out, to break his rhythm, to do anything she could that used to trip him up when he was yet a fledgeling.

Only she could stop his madness. She couldn’t allow herself to fail.

With a shout, Eileen transformed her blades to again be separate, drawing them back to slice open his throat the moment she saw an opening, one last attempt to free him of this mortal coil.

The inhuman metal of his mask reflected the cold, flickering candlelight, a poor facsimile of the way his eyes once glimmered with awe. Yet his posture was still just the same- distant, unaffected, a physical manifestation of his noble heritage. Despite his eyes being covered, the moment Eileen reared her weapon back, he took the opportunity.

He rolled to the side, the thin trail of smoke following behind, dropping to one knee to level his pistol.

He fired a shot before Eileen’s eyes had even caught up to his movement.

She collapsed to her knees, very nearly dropping her weapon, tempted to clutch at the now gaping wound in her stomach, but unable to move. Unable to breathe, to think, to function.

For a heart stopping moment, she was completely at his mercy.

Yet, he hesitated. Rather than leaping or rolling forth to rip her heart from her chest and be done with the whole affair, he walked calmly towards her. As if he wanted to-

No. He was toying with her.  _ It  _ was toying with her. It wanted to prolong the fight, it wasn’t capable of love or regret or complex thought. All it craved was blood and violence, and all it desired in that moment was to preserve Eileen solely so the fun wouldn’t end quite yet. It knew it had won the battle. It was just playing with its food, perhaps smiling a perverted version of his grin as it watched her suffer.

She had no choice but to flee. 

She had to turn and run, abandon her own pupil to this terrible fate. A cowardly end. But better to flee and return later, perhaps with help, than to make a stand and get herself killed. 

"I'm sorry, love," she groaned, staggering to her feet and ignoring the deep ache of her wounds, the pulsing of blood soaking her clothing. It stood, apathetic, a few feet away, simply watching her move. It watched her limp away, perhaps it hoped for a better fight when she returned. Or perhaps it just wanted to continue to toy with her, to torture her, to punish her for failing the man it once was. 


End file.
